


Alone in the Light

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Coulson Lives, Gen, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, maybe also a bit of clint/coulson if you squint, obligatory hospital scenes, obviously, phil/nick if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"They all think I'm dead."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> <i>"You were."</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"And now I'm not." Nick smirks. Phil sighs. Business as usual. "And we're up shit creek."</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Start paddling."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone in the Light

_"I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than walk alone in the light." ― Helen Keller_  


He notices the beeping first. It's relentless but slow. Steady. Almost mesmerizing. 

Then the warmth across his face, the glimmer of light creeping beneath his eyelids. 

Smell of disinfectant, sound of his heart beating, sound of someone breathing. Might just be him? For a moment he doesn't remember who that is, and then he does. He takes a breath, to see if he still can. 

Success.

"Man, are we up shit creek." 

He opens his eyes. His brain's still cotton ball fuzzy and registers the picture before him slowly, piece by piece: black combat boots, braced on the corner of his mattress; black pants; black leather jacket, long and trailing out of the pink hospital chair where its owner is sitting; open newspaper ("City Recovers As Damage Estimates Rise", he catches, above the fold) blocking the view of the rest.

" _We_?" he manages to croak. It sounds painful, to his own ears, but it's not. Which is odd. The last memory he has is one of pain, a lot of it, and at the time, he'd thought it was the last sensation he was ever going to feel. Good to know it might not be, after all. 

The newspaper crinkles as it’s folded up. Nick's dark, sharp eye rakes over him. "Well, you're not dead."

"Got that."

"It just puts me in one hell of a situation there, Cheese. Lyin' to my agents, you know how I hate that."

"Not at all?"

Nick grins. It's broad and terrifying and Phil is struck by the very, very strange urge to kiss him, just from the joy of seeing it. "Yeah, guess I don't. Not a huge fan of you bleeding the fuck out on me, though."

"Sorry?"

"You should be. You've got a month to get your lazy ass out of this place, then HR's been telling me you got six weeks of vacation saved―"

"That can't possibly―"

"So you're gonna take _at least_ a week, somewhere warm, for fuck's sake, and after _that_ , I've got a little job for you to keep you busy while you get back to fighting weight." 

"Rather take that vacation."

"Oh, you're gonna. And when you're done, you're running point on this team I'm putting together."

"Because the last time around worked out so well."

Nick blinks at him. It's quick, a flicker of confusion and possibly concern. 

"Phil, those fools beat back an alien invasion in your name. You coulda done a hell of a lot worse."

"What?"

"Six of them against more than a thousand of the ugliest alien motherfuckers you've ever seen, and we're still here. Earth's safe. Loki's back on Asgard, subject to the wrath of more than one vengeful god. So you tell me, Cheese, how _did_ that all work out?" Nick grins, and bumps the heel of his boot against Phil's thigh. Phil tries to punch it away but his arms refuse to move. That should concern him. It doesn't.

"They all think I'm dead."

"You were."

"And now I'm not." Nick smirks. Phil sighs. Business as usual. "And we're up shit creek."

"Start paddling."

Phil groans. In exasperation, not in pain, but there's that flicker again, as Nick eyes the IV. He's still looking at it when he speaks again, gruff and a little too quick: "Also, I owe you a new set of trading cards."

Normally, Phil would shut his eyes, but he knows if he does he'll have a hell of a time getting them open after. He sighs instead, wheezy, but he thinks it properly portrays his annoyance. Hopes so, anyway. "Dammit, Marcus. _Again_?"

Nick shrugs. It's his _ends justify the fucking means, Cheese_ shrug, and Phil knows better than to ask. 

A thought floats up to the surface of his clouded, swirling consciousness. "Six?"

Nick smirks again, a different smirk than before. Smug. _Told you so_. 

"Stop," he says. Nick does not.

"Your boy's a mess."

Phil sighs. "He's not my boy." 

"The hell he's not. I've got him out on solo missions 'cause no one else can handle him, but that shit's not gonna fly the next time there's a major threat."

"Barton's not a trouble maker." And he's not, rumors be damned. He's a good agent. He follows orders. Generally, it's true, and sometimes wavers on the details, but mission objectives are always met and Phil doesn't need anything else from him.

He looks up; Nick's giving him an amused, tolerant look. The last time Phil'd seen it was when they'd been to see Nick's Aunt Agatha, a tough old broad with the meanest six cats Phil's ever seen. She liked to insist they were darling sweet angels. 

Nick shakes his head after a second, and his face settles back into its normal, hard expression. "Correction," he says. "Barton _wasn't_ a trouble maker. Now I've got him goin' AWOL the minute an op winds down, refusing medical attention, skipping his psych appointments. Hill's ready to ride him out on a rail. Sitwell's the only Level 7 left who can stand him, which means Barton's refusing to work with him."

"Collins was always―"

Nick shakes his head again, slow and final this time, and Phil sighs. Wonders how it happened. She wasn't in New Mexico; must've been on the Helicarrier. His chest hurts. The steady bleeps of his heart monitor spike for a moment, then settle. Nick looks at him, no smirk, no grin, no shrug. Just stares, like he can't quite believe he's there. 

"You weren't worried about me, were you, Marcus?"

Nick snorts, drops his gaze, and starts unfolding his newspaper. "Boy, don't you wish."

"Asshole."

Nick grins again. "Idiot." 

Phil closes his eyes. Just for a while, he tells him self. Just for a little while.

He wakes up to the sound of newspaper rustling. The sunlight that had warmed his face has faded. Feels his mattress shift infinitesimally. Hears the thud of boots on the ground, light like the person inhabiting them doesn't want to wake him. 

_Too late_ , he wants to call out. 

His mouth doesn't form the words.

Which is fine. He already feels himself falling back asleep. 

He must have. Because he feels a hand patting his; the palm is large, warm and dry and rough, calloused. A long-forgotten memory sends up ripples of recollection, but sinks before he can capture it. The scent of gun oil wafting over him, sharp and familiar. A kiss pressed to his forehead.

Yeah, Phil thinks. Definitely dreaming that.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like the fanfic world could use more Nick and Phil, bein' bros. This was my very, very humble contribution to the cause.


End file.
